


Crawley

by PoorWendy



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animals, Dogs, Imaginary Friends, M/M, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 10:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11034723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorWendy/pseuds/PoorWendy
Summary: In which Arthur has spent his life in a world populated by imaginary animals until he meets one particular, inarguably real one.





	Crawley

Arthur never had imaginary friends.

Arthur always had imaginary _pets_.

It’s not as if Arthur had too many real friends, but he’d never had a pet, and he’d always wanted one so dearly. It didn’t _have_ to be a dog, really. It could be a rabbit, or a hamster, or a goldfish, or any old animal, _really_. He craved that connection people seemed to have with their animal best friends.

It started when he was young. Like, really young. Like still shitting himself on the daily young. Like, unable to form actual words young.

His mother never mistook any of his sounds for words. From what she heard, they were mostly _ee-ee-ees_ , so she'd call him a little monkey. His sister always laughed so hard at that, saying, "He's got monkey _ears_ too." But she didn’t exactly subscribe to the monkey-sound theory. If you asked his older sister, Arthur was extremely verbose from a very early age, with more opinions than almost anyone could hope to have, but she wasn’t much older herself, and really, she was grasping at straws.

Somewhere between _ee-ee-ee_ and ‘monkey’ and ‘mama,’ she seemed to hear it clear as day. So Arthur’s imaginary pet, whoever he happened to be that day, was Eems. That’s how she would write it when Arthur would make her once she started learning her letters. Arthur’s mother pointed out that there was actually a way to spell Eems and that it was a type of chair, to which Arthur replied with the obvious: “Eems isn’t a _chair_.”

So Arthur went on putting out water bowls for the dogs, milk for the cats, nuts for the squirrels, bread for the birds (Arthur’s mother would try to tell him that birds really shouldn’t eat bread, but Arthur, his vocabulary limited as it was, knew again that she was _obviously_ mistaken, ‘cause bread is all anybody ever feeds birds, of course), little leaves in jars for caterpillars… He even dropped popcorn gently, one kernel at a time, off the side of a ferry boat while they were on vacation in Florida, pretending his pet was now a big humpback whale whose barnacles skimmed the surface of the lake just beside them. But it was always one pet at a time, and whether it was a bird, or a whale, or a squirrel, or a dog, it was always Eems, even when Arthur got old enough that he really didn’t ever think to _call_ Eems much of anything, or do much else with him than just imagine him.

It wasn’t as if he  _tried_ to keep conjuring up imaginary animals. They would just sort of… show up. One would always be there, and would have that same inherent quality as the playmate he had as a child.

In middle school, for example, when he was about 12, he’d sometimes lose interest during social studies, as Miss Michaels had a tendency to drone on and make even the most interesting old societies positively _boring_. But Miss Michaels’ class was on the first floor, facing the front lawn of the school, and the windows were just low enough that Arthur could imagine a cat springing up to sit on the sill, stretching out to lie down, and stare at Arthur with big round eyes, missing him, or maybe just saying hello. Wouldn’t that be nice? To be stuck in class and have your pet and best friend wander over like a little town traveler and poke his nose in to say hello?

Or then in high school, if Arthur was eating alone—which he often was—and especially if the weather was nice, he’d go out and sit at a table outside the cafeteria, and imagine that a dog was sitting obediently at his feet, hoping for scraps but never _truly_ begging. There may have even been one occasion when Arthur “accidentally” forgot to pick up a bone he dropped while eating leftover fried chicken his mother had packed for him, and walked back to class thinking of a slobbery basset hound chewing happily on it.

During college they’d make their appearances, even if Arthur sort of dressed the whole thing up differently by then, desperate not to be an actual college student with actual imaginary friends. Imaginary animal friends no less. He tried to make it more of a hypothetical observation. Like, _Oh, wouldn’t it be funny if this animal was there doing this?_ Like, wouldn’t it be kind of silly if a deer was following Arthur a few steps back on the path, making sure he got safely to class? Wouldn’t it be kind of hilarious of a duck was splashing around in the ungodly communal dorm showers? Wouldn’t it be _ridiculous_ if a pangolin was trotting around the stacks when Arthur had a late shift at the library?

The library did him in, really. If it hadn’t been for so many hours in that space which seems made for creative invention, he might have gone on convincing himself he wasn’t still pretending. But when you’re shelving books, bored and maybe lonely, wouldn’t it just be better if a koala was there to hand the low ones on the trolley up to you? When you’re closing up, and clearing out the straggler guests, wouldn’t it set your mind at ease to know a polar bear was barreling along behind you, ready to intervene should any transients or ghosts or (god help us all) frat guys turn into trouble? When it’s nearing the end of Winter Semester and the library seems incapable of maintaining a temperature above 60 degrees, wouldn’t it be _wonderful_ if a fox would crawl up the reference desk and paw his way up your shirt, settling around your neck and snoozing warmly?

He doesn’t talk to them or play with them or anything like when he was young, but he imagines them nonetheless. They frolic in and out of his daily landscape unbidden. He gets distracted, his imagination wanders. It passes the time and, honestly, it’s all rather pleasant, so Arthur’s never really minded much.

 

\---

 

It’s odd, or maybe fitting, that Arthur would meet them on a day when he hadn’t yet imagined anybody anywhere. No pigeon on his walk to work, no wolf strolling along beside him at the office, no piglet following him happily to lunch.

It’s then, on this so-far- _Eems_ less day, while Arthur walks to lunch, that he’s bull rushed by some hulking mutt, leash trailing behind him.

Arthur only notices the dog about four seconds before he’s knocked down, and in fact, he doesn’t even know if he’d have looked up _that_ quickly if he hadn’t been _sure_ he heard such a strange shout at that moment.

He forgot the strange sound only for a moment, the same moment when he’d landed on the ground but wasn’t sure whether it hurt or not, and the same moment when he realized there was a giant dog in his face but wasn’t entirely sure whether or not this meant trouble yet.

But once that moment has passed, and he isn’t hurt, and the dog starts licking his face, he remembers what he heard. He heard somebody shout, _“Eems!”_

Then there’s a guy barreling toward him, a big bear of a guy, broad, running with all the grace of a man on actual fire. He comes to a stuttering halt behind the dog, grabbing the leash up off the ground and pulling him off of Arthur. “I’m sorry, he’s strong, but I’m usually stronger,” the guy says with an accent Arthur really likes, looking mortified.

“It’s alright,” Arthur says. He gets to his feet enough that he can squat facing the dog. He pets the dog’s head and rubs behind its ears and reaches under its chin to read its license. _Crawley_. Arthur shakes his head a bit, reminding himself that he probably didn’t actually hear anybody say Eems, and even if he did, it probably wasn’t this guy. “I’m sure there are bigger, badder dogs to be knocked down by,” Arthur goes on, smiling, giving the dog another pat as he rises to fully standing.

The dog’s owner feigns insult and turns to the dog. “Oh, he didn’t mean that. Nobody’s tougher than you,” he says consolingly, but flashes Arthur a smile. “He didn’t hurt you, did he…?” the guy asks, apparently trailing off when he realizes he knows no name to call Arthur by.

“Arthur,” Arthur supplies, and extends his hand.

“Eames,” the guy says as he shakes it.

Arthur cocks his head sideways. “Was somebody calling you just now?” Eames only looks confused. “I swore I heard somebody shout _Eems_ before your dog…” Arthur trails off, feeling a little bit crazy.

“Oh,” Eames says, smiling. “No, that was me. I was calling _him_ ,” he says, motioning to the dog.

Arthur stares for a moment before saying, “I’m missing something. His collar says ‘Crawley.’”

Eames laughs like this is his favorite game and playfully covers the dog’s ears. “ _Shhhh…_ He _hates_ that name. Eames is a surname. Would you go around being called Crawley?”

Arthur shrugs. “I go around being called Arthur.”

Eames smiles. “He prefers Eames,” he insists quietly.

Arthur feels like maybe he’s starting to get it. “So, Eames is your last name,” he says more than asks, but Eames nods anyway. “So what’s your first name?”

Eames chuckles and scratches dog-Eames behind the ears. “I prefer Eames as well.”

Arthur laughs. “It isn’t Crawley, is it?”

“It’s worse,” Eames insists.

It’s all so pleasant and unexpected that the two Eameses end up walking Arthur back to work, stopping for hot dogs on the way. And, sure, Arthur has to stop and wonder here and there whether he’s in the middle of a complete nervous breakdown, or if he really _has_ met not one, but _two_ Eemses. Even if they happen to spell their names differently (as Arthur found out by uncoolly asking, “So, Eames like the chair?”), Arthur feels a sweet, familiar feeling being around them, the kind of feeling he had around every other Eems he ever “knew.”

They talk a lot, endlessly really, but once he’s back in his office Arthur’s at a loss for a single topic they covered, though he _does_ remember Eames' answer when Arthur asked what kind of dog Crawley—no,  _Eames_ was ("Vet's best guess is pitbull, German shepherd, and border collie. His more medical opinion is: 'It was a wild party, and nobody left their real name.'"). It was all a blur of sunshine and laughter and ketchup and mustard. He spends a few days with some fraction of that blur hanging around him, an inexplicable grin seemingly plastered to his face, and a bona fide _spring_ in his step.

Eems—as he’s starting to call them all again—doesn’t show up anywhere in that time. Sometimes Arthur remembers one his old pets from childhood (or adolescence, or just plain adulthood), but they don’t “visit.” Instead, when his mind drifts that way, he just remembers the Eameses he met on the sidewalk, smiles, and tries to busy himself again.

Until one day when Arthur looks up, and sitting in the doorway of his office, like he’s imagined so many times before, is a dog. _Eems,_ Arthur thinks for a fleeting moment, and smiles. Then he realizes. _No, Eames._

Even though it’s unmistakably the very _real_ dog that Arthur met last week, Arthur has to sit in complete disbelief for a moment before he can even laugh out a half-whispered, “What are _you_ doing here?”

Then there are clumsy, heavy footsteps clomping up the hall and Eames-the-human appears behind Eames-the-dog, picking his leash up off the floor. “I think he’s wild for your scent; he abandoned me at the front desk and took off with what seemed to be _great purpose_ in this direction," Eames announces theatrically.

Arthur just shakes his head. He’s laughing. He’s not sure when that started, but he’s _giggling_ . “What are you doing here?” he asks again, breathlessly. It’s probably a rude thing to say, but _really_ , what else can he say?

Eames smiles sheepishly, or what Arthur thinks must be sheepish for Eames, whose typical smile so far has been exuberant, insistent. “Well, it was at Eames’ insistence, really,” he begins.

“Dog-Eames?” Arthur teases.

Eames plays at covering his dog’s ears again. “Oh, come now, Arthur—he doesn’t like to be made to feel so _different._ He’s just furry Eames, is all,” he says. Arthur raises an eyebrow at this, noting Eames’ grizzly beard, the hair covering his arms and legs, the mess of it on top of his head. “Er…” Eames says, noting where Arthur’s attention has gone. “Shorter Eames,” he decides finally, and pats the dog on his head.

“So _shorter_ Eames just decided it was the perfect day to pay me a visit?” Arthur asks, playing right into Eames’ hand, or paw, because really, he’s got a hell of a weakness already for both of them.

“Well,” Eames says, “I tried to explain to him it might be a bit odd, us barely knowing you and all that, but he made a very convincing argument: you’re very cute and fun.” Arthur’s eyes widen at this, and his jaw even drops a hair. “I _know_ ,” Eames goes on. “I told him he’d be coming on _awfully_ strong, but he just had to see you again.”

There’s no way around it; Arthur _blushes_. “Well,” he begins softly, trying to pretend he’s cool and that all of his insides aren’t just line-dancing with one another after all that, “there’s certainly something to be said for that kind of self-assuredness.”

“He was hoping you’d think so,” Eames says. “Maybe you could get dinner with us tonight?”

Arthur nods for, like, five full seconds before managing to spit out, “Yeah,” and then another few seconds later, “I’d love to.”

Once the Eameses have left the office, Arthur gets very little work done. He finishes a yogurt during lunch and somewhere in the back of his mind, part of him is concentrating very hard on the idea of Eems-the-dog getting up from his cozy spot in the corner and loping happily toward Arthur, eager to lick the remaining yogurt out of his cup.

And if Eems-the-dog happens to be a dead ringer for Eames-the-dog, well, can Arthur really help that?

 

\---

 

They meet at seven, at a dumpy little burger place, and Arthur calls it that with complete respect, of course. He’s passed it a lot but never paid it much notice. The storefront-window is crowded with fliers and passing marks from health inspectors and ads for _ancient_ specials—Arthur spots both a “2016 Summer Olympics Special” and a “Royal Wedding Special.”

The fraction of the interior he can see through all of this from the outside is unimpressive. Limited counter space, and stools with sticky, shiny plastic seats.

Arthur leans against the wall beside the window, browsing various social media and news apps on his phone, half-imagining a dog waiting with him by his feet.

He feels like if any other guy asked to meet him here for dinner, Arthur would be turned off immediately. So Arthur isn’t exactly sure what makes Eames such an exception. The obvious explanation for the strange sense of comfort Arthur feels is _trust_.

But how do you just _trust_ somebody that you only just met? How is it that Arthur, who’s never been able to trust an actual human being the way that he trusts fucking imaginary pets, feels so at ease with this… _stranger?_

It’s irrelevant. Arthur looks up and Eames-the-human is being tugged his way by an eager Eames-the-dog. Arthur’s heart pounds at the sight of them and doesn’t bother questioning the miracle that is the _comfort_ he feels around Eames— _both_ Eameses, the one dragging the other along.

Eames gives up and lets go of the leash ultimately, letting the dog run the last few yards to Arthur. Arthur squats down preemptively so that the dog doesn’t feel compelled to jump up and knock him over again, although there is a part of him that’s surprisingly totally willing to just wrestle this large dog on the sidewalk. But, you know. Class and poise and first-real-dates and all that.

“How ya doin’, buddy?” Arthur says softly to the dog as he scratches behind his ears. He lets him lick his hands, scratches down his back, pats him on the ass once or twice before finally standing up, beaming at Eames—the very _human_ Eames whose muscled chest and arms somehow look even better in a flannel. “Hey,” Arthur huffs out, because he apparently can’t even see these two without getting out of breath.

Eames is already grinning. Maybe he’s just _always_ smiling. There must be times he doesn’t smile… Nobody smiles _all_ the time. But Arthur thinks he’s never seen him doing anything else so far. And is that really so strange? Because Arthur hasn’t done much else but smile around Eames. And Arthur spends _plenty_ of time not-smiling. Although, right now, looking at Eames, Arthur doesn’t exactly remember what it feels like not to smile. “Hey,” Eames answers back. “You ever been here before?” he asks, nodding to the restaurant behind them, though Arthur still thinks restaurant might be a generous term in this particular case.

Arthur shakes his head. “I haven’t,” he says, “but I’ve walked by it loads of times.”

“It’s _excellent,_ ” Eames assures him.

“You know, everybody thinks they know the best little secret burger joint in the city,” Arthur points out.

Eames laughs. “Yes, but this is _me_ , darling. And I _really_ _found it_.”

Arthur can’t look right at Eames after hearing _that_ come out of his mouth, so raises his face skyward a little bit, thinking maybe the evening sunlight will do him a favor and help to cover up his blush. “Alright,” he says finally, looking back to Eames. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

Eames opens the door, and then Eames-the-dog leads the way. He heads directly for the counter, jumping up and standing with his front paws at the edge.

Arthur’s rather mortified for a second before the guy (and if Eames is a big guy, this is a _huge_ guy) behind the counter turns, sees the dog, and turns to goo. “ _Ayyyy_ , boyyyy…” he coos, grabbing the dog gently behind both ears and ruffling his whole head about. “How’s _dis big fewwaaaaa…_ ” the guy goes on, so sweetly that Arthur has to fight laughter.

“Hey, Fred,” Eames says fondly.

Finally the guy lifts his gaze (but not his hands or even really his face) from the Eames-the-dog and turns to Eames-the-human. “How you been, man?” he says, still soft but not at all like he’s talking to his own infant child anymore. “Haven’t seen you in a couple weeks.”

Eames smiles. “I’ve been on a cooking kick,” he says, shrugging innocently. “Arthur, this is Freddy,” he adds, and Arthur steps forward to shake Freddy’s hand. Freddy looks for a second like he thinks this is very silly, but shakes Arthur’s hand all the same.

“How you doin’?” Freddy says, reaching behind the cash register now and opening a big, old-fashioned cookie jar. He pulls a dog biscuit out from inside.

“Alright, how are you?” Arthur responds. Freddy offers a fairly friendly smile and a little nod in return, then tosses the biscuit to the dog, who snaps at it, misses it, and watches it drop to the floor and break in two. “ _Lucky_ dog,” Arthur says to him. He turns to the other Eames and says, “Now he gets _two_ treats.”

Eames cocks an eyebrow. “God, he does seem more excited, doesn't he? Maybe he’s been missing on purpose…” he muses.

Arthur laughs. “Well, can he catch a ball?” he asks. Eames squints a little toward the dog, looking strained for a polite way to answer. Arthur laughs some more. “He’s got other strengths,” he says reassuringly, and pats Eames on the shoulder.

“Eatin’ out back tonight, Eames?” Freddy asks, and the dog makes a little noise in response to the name and turns to face Freddy as well.

“Of course!” Eames replies delightedly. “What am I going to eat in here for on an evening like this? The _conversation?_ ” he teases.

Freddy pulls his Yankee cap down a bit and looks at the floor. “You _wound_ me,” he says, voice full of pretend hurt, and sounding closer to the way he spoke to the dog. Then he looks up, smiling. “What’ll you have?”

Arthur looks nervously to Eames, figuring he’s got “a usual,” the way he’s acting with this guy. “Same old,” Eames begins, and then thankfully, “bacon cheeseburger with ketchup and mayo and pickles.”

“For you, Arthur?” Freddy asks, and Arthur feels weirdly touched that he used his name.

“Uh,” Arthur begins stupidly, “can I get a hamburger with lettuce, tomatoes, and onions? And ketchup?”

Freddy nods. “No cheese?”

“No cheese,” Arthur answers.

“Drinks?”

Eames looks at Arthur. “Coke?” he asks. Arthur nods. It sounds great. Probably just because of the old-fashioned Coke ads on the wall, but still. “Two Cokes,” Eames says, turning back to Freddy, who fills two paper cups with ice and soda, caps them with lids, and pushes them across the counter with two paper-wrapped straws.

“Out in a bit,” Freddy says then, and gets to work.

Eames opens the back door and again Eames-the-dog bolts through. Arthur follows him and is actually… kind of _floored_ for a moment. It’s nothing special, really. A few wooden picnic tables with benches, a cheap little fire pit with more benches back toward the fence. And there are string-lights looped and twisted and hanging around things—the trees, and the fence, the long iron stand of a bird-feeder. None of it is especially impressive, but altogether, it’s more than the sum of its parts. Maybe it’s just the fact that the sun’s setting more now and everything’s gone a bit pink and gold, or the way that Eames-the-dog is wandering around and sniffing with delight and seemingly at random, or the fact that Eames steps up from behind Arthur at that moment and stands beside him, putting his hand gently on the small of Arthur’s back.

“Not bad, eh?” Eames says softly.

“Not at all,” Arthur agrees. “I never knew this was back here.”

“Yeah,” Eames says with a laugh. “You’d really never guess, based on the front.”

They pick one of the middle tables and sit down. The dog just keeps sniffing around until Freddy opens the back door again to put a bowl of water down on the ground for him. Then, Eames-the-dog waltzes happily over to drink his full. Arthur wonders for a moment why Freddy brought out such a big bowl of water, but once the dog starts drinking it makes sense: half the water’s on the ground in two seconds.

“He’s a slob,” Eames notes. “Don’t know _where_ he gets it from.” Then there's quiet for a bit, besides the steady din of the city beyond the fence, birds chirping nearby, bees buzzing past every so often.

“So do you have any other pets?” Arthur asks, partially to fill the silence—though he does wonder if it really needs filling—and partly out of plain curiosity. “Any other Eameses? Or, maybe a Cornelius who prefers Eames?”

Eames snorts. “What kind of pet do you imagine I’ve named Cornelius?”

Arthur thinks for a minute and sips on his soda. “Like, a bird, maybe?”

Eames laughs but shakes his head. “No other pets. No other Eameses. Just us.” He takes a long sip of his soda. “What about you. Any pets?”

“Nope,” Arthur answers, with a sigh that bears a small, humorous trace of the disappointment that actually accompanies that fact.

“What about when you were a kid?” Eames asks, and boy, that’s a question, isn’t it?

Arthur looks at his lap and laughs, a little nervously, though he doesn’t think it comes out that way. “No,” he answers before looking up. “We never had pets.”

“What?” Eames asks simply, which Arthur finds endearing. Not _what are you laughing at_ , not _what happened_ , not _what’s so funny_ … Just _what?_

“We weren’t allowed to have pets. My mom was allergic to cats and had a whole thing about dogs,” he offers, trying to make that out to be as funny as whatever it was he was laughing at. "I think anything in a cage or a tank just struck her an excessive responsibility."

“'Whole thing about dogs?'” Eames echoes.

Arthur sighs. “Well, she had a bad experience with a dog as a kid,” he begins, then corrects himself, “ _well_ , it wasn’t even her experience, really.” Does he really feel like going into all of it? But he’s going on in spite of wondering that. “Her older sister, my aunt, got knocked down and bitten by this really big dog when they were kids. And I think they were both always pretty fearless… I know my mom is still really fearless; she always has been. But then suddenly there was this really inarguable thing they knew they had to be afraid of. Like, just the fact that it scared my aunt so much scared my mom in itself,” Arthur explains clumsily. “I think it was like the one thing she could just let herself be afraid of forever, because she could keep control over it so easily. Because I seriously can’t ever remember her being afraid of anything else. Not really.”

They’re quiet for a second, and Arthur feels unsettled in the silence. It’s giving his words too much time to bounce around in his head, taunting him and making him wonder if he shouldn’t have said anything at all. Then Eames says, quietly, “That’s very sad.”

“It is, I guess,” Arthur agrees immediately, grateful for some return to their earlier pace.

Eames looks off toward the dog. “Dogs are mostly… You know, they don’t _have_ to be dangerous. They just need somebody to understand them.” He looks back to Arthur. “It makes me sad about your mom,” Eames reiterates, “but I’m glad you didn’t end up afraid of them.”

Arthur nods and laughs a little. “Yeah, I couldn't get enough of them. Or any animal, really. I loved them all.”

While they’re chatting about their favorite animals, the back door bangs open again and Freddy steps out with two plates holding quarter-pound burgers and otherwise _filled_ with french fries. Hanging from his fingers where they rest under one of the plates is a little caddy that holds ketchup, mustard, and napkins. It looks pretty heavy, but Freddy’s carrying it like you might carry your keys.

“Here you go,” Freddy says, lumbering over with Eames-the-dog at his heels, wagging and wiggling around excitedly. “Hamburger,” he says, putting one plate in front of Arthur. He transfers Eames’ plate to his other hand before putting it down (“Cheeseburger”), then extricates his fingers from the top of the condiment caddy. “Anything else? Refills?” Freddy asks, wiping his hands on his apron.

Eames slurps the last, loud dregs out of his cup, nodding all the while. “Yes, please, Freddy,” Eames recites like a schoolkid, and hands him the cup.

Freddy looks to Arthur. “I’m okay,” Arthur says, and swishes the contents of his cup around. Freddy nods and heads back inside. “That might be the actual fastest I’ve ever seen somebody drink a soda,” Arthur says to Eames, thinning his eyes in mock-judgment.

Eames’ eyes, on the other hand, widen with excitement. “Oh! Do we get to make fun of each other now? That’s happening? Because you ordered a _hamburger_ ,” he says, like it’s a big accusation. " _What_ kind of person doesn't order a cheeseburger? Are you lactose intolerant? That's the only viable excuse I can think of."

"No," Arthur answers, blushing, then reaches for the ketchup as he laughs. “I was so sure we were past the window for you to bring that up,” he adds.

Eames shakes his head. “No way,” he said. “I was going to bring it up sooner but then you hit me with the sad mum story,” he says, grabbing a few fries and stuffing them in his mouth. “That had me worried, actually,” he says, chewing. “I wasn’t sure I’d get my chance but then you came in with the soda thing, so…” he trails off as he swallows.

Arthur laughs; his arm jerks and he spills entirely too much ketchup onto his plate. He can only laugh more.

“Here, here, here,” Eames says quickly, pulling those of Arthur’s fries that went un-ketchuped onto his own plate, piling them high on top of his own until it looks plain _silly_. “See? You have the ketchup plate and I have the fry plate. That’ll work.”

Arthur nods, laughing at the haystack of fries on Eames’ plate, his burger just poking out beneath them. “That’ll work,” he agrees.

 

\---

 

Dinner’s delicious. It might not be the best burger Arthur’s ever had but it’s certainly one for the record books. They talk for a while after they’ve finished, until long after the sun’s gone down and Freddy's been out to light citronella candles. After a while, Eames-the-dog becomes impatient, jumping around and barking, ready for whatever’s next. They clean up after themselves and head back out through the front of the restaurant, saying goodbye and thank you to Freddy, who tosses the dog a few more biscuits.

They take their time walking, chatting, stopping to admire things in shop windows, indulging Eames-the-dog whenever something piques his interest. Every time they pass a subway station that'll take Arthur back home, they decide to stay up above ground a little longer.

“I have a confession,” Eames says eventually.

“Oh?” Arthur asks in a way that would usually be nervous, except he feels like he just _can’t_ be nervous around Eames.

Eames nods. “It was… It was _me_ who wanted to come visit you at work today.”

Arthur feigns shock, gasping softly and placing a hand to his chest. “ _No_ ,” he says.

Eames nods again, laughing. “ _He_ was the one trying to talk me out of it.”

“So _you’re_ the one who thinks I’m cute and fun,” Arthur says, like he’s casually recounting evidence.

Eames looks away and sort of bumps against Arthur’s shoulder with his own as they walk. They’ve gotten very close. Dog-Eames is trotting happily in front of them, stopping to sniff various smells and to stare longingly at potential friends and wag his tail. Arthur and Eames turn quickly to each other at the same time, and Arthur thinks about turning away, and he worries that Eames will look away, but neither of them do. Eames, looking embarrassed at his 'confession,' asks, “Have I lost you?”

Arthur looks down at his feet, grinning, face hot. “Not yet,” he says, and takes Eames’ hand. Eames squeezes back appreciatively. “It’s a pretty high compliment, really. You both seem like you know a thing or two about cute and fun.”

It’s getting chilly, and as much as Arthur’s enjoying walking, he might be ready to call it a night in that respect. But as for Eames, well, he definitely does not want to call it a night in that respect. He doesn’t even think about it for very long before he’s saying, “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Eames smiles, all his crooked teeth showing, looking ahead again, then down at the dog. “The thing is,” he says, and again, it’s in a way that would normally make Arthur worry, “we shouldn’t,” Eames pauses for a moment that feels like a year, “because every once in a while, he’s a real, inexplicable nightmare at other people’s places, and he's all worked up tonight.” Arthur exhales and almost laughs at himself. “I actually wanted to ask you if you’d like to come back with us,” Eames continues, now looking slightly more directly at Arthur, and maybe blushing. “But I was worried it might be too much, especially after just showing up at your office today…”

“That was amazing,” Arthur tells him. “That was the _best_ surprise.”

“I hardly _know_ you,” Eames says, like it’s supposed to be some sort of argument in spite of his insistent grin.

Arthur looks off for a second, then shrugs. “So? I mean, I guess I don’t care,” he says, fairly certainly. He’s more in surprise of the fact than he is in disbelief of it. “Do you care?”

Eames looks at Arthur fully. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care.”

Arthur squeezes his hand and leans ever so slightly against him as they walk, the dog still trotting happily along in front of them. “So where do you live?” Arthur asks.

 

\---

 

Eames lives in a third floor walk-up, which is admittedly daunting after all the walking they’ve already done. Eames-the-dog, on the other hand, seems happy as ever to dash up each flight as quickly as possible, tripping over his own feet nearing both landings. They both laugh about that, and Arthur forgets his tired feet ‘til they’ve gotten inside, opened a couple beers, and deposited themselves on Eames’ couch.

They exchange a couple age-old _what-should-we-watch?_ s before deciding to just see what’s on TV. Eames surfs around a bit, clicking through the guide, but they keep getting caught up in conversation, distracting Eames entirely, until he finally just hits EXIT to return to whatever channel was already on. It’s the Science Channel: _How It’s Made_.

“So I guess,” Eames goes on, answering the question Arthur asked a moment ago, with that same conceding smile, like he can’t help himself from answering any and all of Arthur’s questions, “I gave him the snobby name so that we’d sort of have that bond. Like he and I have some sort of backstory,” he goes on, laughing at himself a little, his cheeks a bit pink. “He’s seriously my best mate. Like a little brother, really,” Eames adds, and takes the last sip of his beer. “That’s sort of embarrassing, isn’t it?” he says a moment later, looking at Arthur again, laughing at himself a little more.

“Oh _please_ ,” Arthur replies. “You don’t know the half of embarrassing animal stuff.”

“ _Arthur,_ ” Eames purrs, dragging out the name too long and low and wonderfully, “what kind of stuff are you _into_??”

Arthur sticks his tongue out at that. “Maybe you don’t deserve my embarrassing animal stuff!”

Eames laughs and pokes Arthur in the arm. “Forgive me. I obviously am dying to know all about it. Is it _terribly_ embarrassing?”

“ _Terribly_ embarrassing,” Arthur confirms. “Can you handle it?” Eames nods solemnly in spite of his excitement. “So, I had imaginary pets.”

Eames rolls his eyes. “That’s not so bad,” he says, disappointed.

Arthur rolls his eyes right back. “Okay! Well, I guess, I sort of had them for a long time? Like,” Arthur pauses to take another sip of his beer because he feels like every little bit will help him right now, “I always had this animal best friend, but it wouldn’t always be the same animal, and they’d—he’d always be around.”

Eames nods supportively, like he knows there must be more, but Arthur’s courage is wavering a little. “So?” Eames encourages.

“ _So,_ ” Arthur forces out of himself, “and, I mean, I don’t _talk_ to them, or anything, not since I was a _child_ , and I mean, they aren't exactly just...” He’s starting to babble now, and decides to bail out before he really gets lost.

“So they’re still around?” Eames asks, looking _tickled_ , but not in a way that makes Arthur feel like a complete fucking idiot, surprisingly.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I guess I still just… imagine them a lot.”

Eames grins. “I’ve got _no_ problem with imagination. You’ve got to make things interesting.”

And Arthur goes on telling him about various different pets, particularly ones that had “showed up” in interesting, “far-away” locations (anywhere outside the city, according to Eames). Eames thinks each one is better than the last. He even starts asking about certain animals specifically to see if Arthur’s ever found himself imagining one. When Arthur finishes his beer, he tells Eames about the name they called all of Arthur’s pets when he was a kid. He spends several minutes swearing it to Eames before Eames even begins to consider believing it, and ultimately Arthur has to text his sister, _What were my imaginary animals called when I was little?_  just to satisfy him. Eames _falls off the couch_ laughing after she answers him: _Eems._ He laughs so hard there are actual tears in his eyes.

“And then a dog named Eames just _knocked_ you over on the street one day,” Eames says, processing it. He turns to face Arthur. “How is that even—”

“I _know_ ,” Arthur says, laughing some more. “Believe me, I know. It’s… it’s impossible. But here we are.” He slumps against Eames’ shoulder.

“So your best friend was an imaginary, shape-shifting menagerie, _with my name_ ,” Eames sighs, “and mine was just… a series of plain-old, real _dogs_. My whole embarrassing thing just doesn’t seem as cool now.”

Arthur elbows him softly. “It’s the coolest,” he says, and they both laugh. “Maybe it’s not the _coolest_ ,” Arthur amends, “but it’s pretty great.”

“I think,” Eames says, putting his arm casually around Arthur’s shoulders, “that _you_ are pretty great.”

Eames kisses him then, in the long beat of silence that follows, while Arthur’s heart is pumping so hard that he can feel the blood racing through his body. A lot of that blood’s in his extremities (his arms, for example, seem to be buzzing, and the skin under his sleeves feels iron-hot); a lot of that blood’s… elsewhere.

Arthur doesn't know how long they just make out on the couch before heading to Eames' bedroom (though it might have coincided with the sudden and detailed description of producing plungers on TV), pulling each other's shirts and jeans off before wrestling each other into the bed.

Eames smells amazing and Arthur is breathing him in desperately as he runs his hands over all the muscles he can reach, tearing his lips away from Eames’ mouth only long enough to latch them briefly and urgently to Eames’ jaw or his neck, or to utter nonsense and Eames’ name. He catches Eames’ eye for a moment (a moment in which Eames bears a very new kind of a smile, just as playful as Arthur’s sometimes seen, but with something sober and determined underneath) before Eames goes in to kiss his neck, and between that look and Eames’ lips he nearly snaps his eyes shut, in fact he very nearly does, but a glimpse of a figure over Eames’ shoulder snaps them open again.

"Oh my god," Arthur says, and not in the way he was saying it a few minutes earlier. "The fucking _dog_ is watching." He’s laughing now. It’s the least sexy thing ever, but it might also be the funniest thing ever.

Eames looks over his shoulder, and sure enough, the dog is still staring dumbly at them. Eames pulls the blankets up over them in a ridiculous display of modesty. "Maybe he thought you were calling him before," Eames suggests. A beat later, he shifts his eyes, staring unfocused and to the side, one eyebrow cocked, looking like he's just understood the solution to a long-unanswered riddle.

Arthur's face is so hot, he knows he's blushing furiously, and of course the laughing isn’t helping. "This really is the worst system."

"He’s kind of a pervert, I guess. Well, what did you do when your Eemses would show up at a time like this?" Eames asks, beginning to laugh along with Arthur, or maybe just at him.

Arthur covers his face with his hands. "Oh my _god_ ," he says again. "Don't you do that to my Eemses."

"What? You said there were cats! I've been watched by more cats than I could count," Eames goes on. "No Eems-the-cats ever stared at you and some lucky little—"

" _Never_ ," Arthur insists from behind his hands.

"What about, like, out in nature? Is that your style? Ever been on the beach and suddenly: Eems-the-crab? Oh, or the whale! I loved the whale."

"The whale lived in a _lake_ ," Arthur corrects him indignantly, now peeking between his fingers. "And even if he didn't, I hardly think he'd _beach_ himself to watch me fucking."

"My mistake," Eames concedes, and presses a kiss to Arthur's forehead, then his temple, the shell of his ear. Then he looks over his shoulder again. "No dogs allowed," he tells his dog, who sort of frowns in response. Eames huffs an impatient sigh as he half-crawls off the bed and under his nightstand, basically bending himself over Arthur's lap. It gives Arthur a great view of Eames' back, his ass, his thighs... It also gives Arthur a certain... urgency.

Then Eames is pushing himself backward and up onto the bed again, a tennis ball now in one hand. He turns back toward his dog once more and throws the ball past him and out of the room. The dog runs after the ball, and Eames hops up off the bed and quickly closes the door so they won’t be interrupted, or _ogled_ again. "That'll keep him busy," Eames says, climbing back under the covers next to Arthur and pulling him close again. They hear a crash in the kitchen where Eames-the-dog has seemingly, in his excitement, bumped into something and knocked over many more somethings in the process.

Arthur's laughing harder than before as Eames grins against his neck. "Is he okay?" Arthur chokes out.

"He's fine," Eames says against his neck. His breath is warm. Arthur can feel his teeth, his lips parted in a smile. "He's indestructible."

Arthur bites his lip and almost doesn't it say it. Then he does. “Well, let’s see if that doesn’t make two of us.”

Eames _growls_.

 

\---

 

The morning is heaven. Eames makes them blueberry pancakes and really delicious coffee. Neither of them have anything better they could possibly think of doing on a Saturday morning, so they go to a dog park a few blocks away and let dog-Eames loose. He chases all the little dogs. Arthur brings _the New York Times_ , and Eames complains that it’s boring.

It becomes routine after a laughably short period of time. They visit Arthur at work, they all go for walks, Arthur finds himself staying at Eames’ place as often as he sleeps at home in his own bed. Once in a while they even leave a pouty Eames-the-dog at home and see a movie, or actually go eat dinner inside somewhere. Most of the time, Eames just cooks, and they curl up on the couch, and eventually distract the dog with something or other.

After a few weeks, Eames brings the dog over to Arthur’s place. He’s positively _docile_ in Arthur’s apartment, not trying to eat anything that isn’t specifically meant for him, not rubbing his ass anywhere, or knocking anything over. That’s the night that Arthur levels with Eames-the-dog (seriously) while Eames-the-human is in the bathroom, explaining that he’s going to need to start calling him something other than Eames. “I really think you should just let me call you Crawley,” Arthur says, making some effort toward speaking quietly so Eames doesn’t hear. “I don’t want to keep calling you ‘the dog,’ and I’m really not wild about you coming into the bedroom while… you know.”

The dog tilts his head considerately, then moves closer to Arthur and places his head on his knee. It seems like a concession, only mostly begrudging.

“I know you’re compromising more than I am, really,” Arthur swears, and then offers, “I appreciate it, Crawley.”

Crawley grumbles a little but licks Arthur’s hand nevertheless.

From then on, there’s little confusion. They basically split their time between Arthur’s place and Eames’, Arthur slowly collecting dog beds and toys and food bowls. Crawley makes himself at home the moment they cross the threshold into Arthur’s apartment. He sleeps by Arthur’s feet while he watches TV. He takes up far too much room between them on the bed at night. He sniffs wildly at the crack under the front door anytime somebody walks down the hall.

It’s all heaven, all blueberry pancakes and sunshine and laughter. While they’re getting sentimental one night, about three months after they met, stupidly in love, still falling harder every moment, Arthur’s telling him, “I think I always felt this hole… In my life, my world, or my home…” he rolls his eyes at himself before adding, “my _heart_. Maybe not a hole, but a space. Some vacancy. I built up this really big thing about pets in my head my whole life. I set myself up for it, that vacant spot. It was inevitable.”

Eames smiles. “I sometimes really think I just plain wouldn’t have made it this long if not for dogs.”

Arthur pets Crawley’s head. “I kind of can’t believe I went my whole life without them. Without this guy.”

“He’s not as exciting as some of your other pets. Like the armadillo in the library.”

“Pangolin,” Arthur corrects.

“Pangolin,” Eames allows. “Or the tiger at the playground. Or the kangaroo. Or the whale!” Eames adds enthusiastically.

“You love the whale.”

“I really do love the whale.”

Arthur laughs at him, at his ridiculous, overjoyed face. “He’s plenty exciting,” he says, then turns to Crawley directly. “You’re very, _very_ exciting. But most importantly, you’re _here_.” Eames laughs at them as Crawley keeps his head on Arthur’s knee but starts wagging his tail. “I never got to pet any of those other guys, or play fetch, or any of that.”

“You fed them,” Eames points out.

Arthur purses his lips, embarrassed. “Yeah, okay, sometimes I fed them.”

“I get it,” Eames offers, trying to take it a little more seriously. “I just don’t want to dismiss them, is all. It seems like they meant a lot to you.”

Arthur nods, and also probably blushes. It’s ridiculous to talk about this, even if Eames always seems so delighted by it. Arthur still can’t believe he’s found another adult who isn’t judgmental of his… overactive imagination.

Although it isn’t so overactive anymore, truth be told. More often than not, there’s a very real dog by his side, in so many of the places his mind would wander and cook up Eemses for a whisper of company. And the dog seems to know, Arthur would swear, how much Arthur needs him, how to be everything Arthur always imagined in a dog—in a pet. Crawley can’t catch a ball to save his life, but he listens to everything and Arthur really thinks that he understands just as much. He’s always reading Arthur’s mind, padding over to join him on the couch while he’s cold, or trotting up with a toy in his mouth just as Arthur’s attention is starting to waver beyond control at work.

Arthur loves that damn dog, and everything he brought with him when he crashed into Arthur that day.


End file.
